


Carousel

by Rioviolina



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe - Foster Family, M/M, School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-15 14:07:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16064699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rioviolina/pseuds/Rioviolina
Summary: An A.U. where Paul and John meet under the foster-care system.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It was on a rainy jam packed M6 motorway to Birmingham that one of my daughters began talking about a programme she'd seen on fostering on television the previous night ... and that was it. A story began to rapidly build in my head, and I have to get it out. Probably just a couple of chapters.

The ten o'clock news was on the telly. Vera's favourite time of night. All the kids ... how many was it? ... she mentally ran through them in her head, just making sure she'd not accidentally left one in the bath, as their numbers changed from day to day. Six. Yes, definitely six. All tucked up and hopefully asleep. 

Dave's arm was round her, his fingers resting on her fat, freckled and capable arm, his eyes glued on the telly.

"All done, love?" he enquired, his eyes never shifting.

She sighed, nodded, murmured "Yes", thinking of the cup of tea they would soon have.

Another day ticked off.

The phone rang shrilly. She jerked up, automatically on her feet and moving, light and quick for all her bulk. Dave's eyes watched her, his ear cocked.

"Hello ...."

He heard half the conversation, but on the other end someone was speaking quickly. He let out a little sigh. Not going to be a peaceful night after all.

"How old?...."

"I guess ... he'd have to kip in with one of the others."

"Yes. Yes, okay ... "

Their eyes met. She shrugged.

"An emergency. They can't find anyone else to have him. Just for tonight, they said."

"How old?"

"Nine." She paused, thinking.

"Where you gonna put him?"

She pulled a face. "All I can do is stick him in with John."

Her husband raised his eyebrows. "John? Same bed?"

"It's a big bed" she murmured, apologetically. "They said they'd tried others but no one had any room. They'll be here in a mom ......."

The doorbell rang.

"What were they doing?" Dave asked sceptically "Waiting round the corner?"

 

She looked harassed, a name tag round her neck, her once blonde hair in rats' tails from the rain, pushing the little boy in front of her. Her eyes had big red bags under them. Too much work, not enough time.

"So appreciate this, Vera. I did try others, honest ...."

Vera made some comforting murmurs back, trying to glimpse the boy who had his head down.

"His name's Paul .. he's nine .. sorry, told you that, didn't I? Came in as an emergency tonight ... don't ask me, 'cos I don't know ... if you can just hang onto him while we look for some long-term placement."

Puddles were forming on the floor, darkening the carpet, under their wet feet.  
Behind her, Vera heard Dave rise from the sofa.  
She bent down, breathing heavily, to survey the young lad.

From beneath a wet dark fringe big eyes surveyed her solemnly. He had twisted his thumb round and round in his skinny jumper, and it pulled up over a tummy, exposing the mottled skin.

"Hello, Paul" she said gently. "Would you like a hot drink? Some Ovaltine or hot chocolate?"

Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face as he continued to stare solemnly at her.

"Sorry" the care worker gushed "He .. he won't talk. He's a select mute."

Vera mouthed the words silently, anxiety pooling in her stomach. She'd never ... how did? ... but ...

The care worker saw the hesitation. She needed to get out quickly, before Vera changed her mind.

"I'm sure you'll cope."

"How .. how will I know what he wants?"

The young woman shrugged. "Just have to guess, I guess" and she coloured and giggled slightly at her unintended pun.

The door closed and she was gone.

 

He didn't stop her from undressing him, but then again, he didn't help either. Just kept those big eyes fixed on her until she began to get the creeps.  
Whatever the other kids were like ... pains in the neck, sometimes ... at least they spoke.  
Dave made a cup of hot chocolate but it sat cooling on the side.  
The thumb, now twisted in a borrowed pyjama top ... she had lots of those stashed away in case of emergencies ... had now made it's way, material and all, into the boy's mouth.

"D'you wanna drink, son? Eh? Warm you up?" Dave squatted in front of Paul. He may as well not have been there.

"Is he a select deaf as well?" asked Dave.

"Ssshh" hushed Vera, pulling up pyjama bottoms.

The child was cold, his skin icy to the touch, and small for a nine year old. A good job, thought Vera, as he was going to have to be shoved in with John who was almost eleven.

"Well, dunno how you're gonna handle this, love, is all."

"It's temporary, Dave. Just tonight, they said."

"Aye" Dave rose heavily to his feet. "They said the same about John an' all. About two years ago, if I recall rightly. I'll make us a cup of tea while you get the littl'un ready for bed."

 

Vera pushed the door open quietly into the biggest room, anxious not to disturb the sleeping children. A bunk bed took up one wall, and against the opposite wall was a slightly larger single bed with a hump in the middle of it. Negotiating carefully by the light that trickled in from the landing and the faint glimmer from behind the curtains, she towed the young boy across to this bed.

"John" she whisper hissed.

The hump moved, tufty auburn hair sticking up, a pair of myopic eyes struggling to focus.

"You're gonna have to shove up a bit, love. Got a little boy here who needs a bed for the night."

Vera's heart swelled with love as John wriggled his way to the furthest side of the bed. He was such a darling boy. She couldn't understand why he'd never been adopted. She couldn't understand why the school complained about his behaviour either. To her, he was a delight and a joy.

She gently helped the young boy into the warm space that had been made for him.

"Paul" she whispered quietly to John. "His name's Paul. Look after him."

As the door closed behind her, John looked closely at his new bedmate.  
Difficult not to, really, stuck together as they were, face to face.  
Big eyes fixed worriedly on John's face, a thumb making it's way into the mouth.  
For a moment they stared at each other.  
John remembered how he'd felt two years ago.  
Lost, abandoned, alone.  
He reached behind him and found his much-loved teddy bear, and dragged it out, thrusting it at the little boy.  
"Here y' go. His name's Boffin."  
Skinny fingers curled round the teddy, and a faint smile was bestowed on John.

 

He stayed.  
He never spoke, but John spoke for him, seeming always to know what he wanted.  
"So sorry" said the social worker "it's because he won't talk, see? People don't want him."

Paul started school and Vera worried, but he went off happily enough clutching John's hand.  
The school supplied a carer to help him cope, but he didn't seem to need her.  
He didn't seem to need anyone.  
He was clever.

Teachers stared in amazement at the work that was produced. He could beat them at their own game.  
"Astonishing academic abilities" they told Vera.  
She smiled proudly, but oh! .. she wished he would talk to her. To Dave. To anyone, really.

People came and looked at him and he would stare back solemnly, sucking his thumb and clutching the teddy, John never far from his side.  
"A bit odd" was the general consensus.  
A few brave ones took him home for the day, but always returned him early.  
He would scurry in, straight to John's side, who would be waiting.

Then John went to high school.  
Vera thought there would be problems.  
Well, there were, but not with Paul.  
"He gets into fights."  
Vera shook her head. John? Her John?  
"Causes arguments."  
"Is rude to the teachers."

"John, is this right, what they say?"  
He looked at her through his glasses.  
"I don't know, Auntie Vera" he said with a shrug.  
She looked at him standing there, one hand gripping tightly to Paul, and felt ... slightly uncomfortable.

"I don't understand" she said "Why Paul hasn't been snapped up. Such a lovely looking boy."  
Dave dried the teapot and put it back on it's tray. "Well" he ruminated " he's ... odd ... int' he?"

Paul started high school and was placed in the top sets in the top class.  
She tried to hug him goodbye but he turned to John, placing his hand trustingly in John's warm one.  
"I'll look after ye' " John said.  
He needed to.  
First day and Paul got beaten up by older children who couldn't understand such an oddity.  
So John beat them up back.

Vera bathed Paul's swollen cheek and tutted while John paced the room angrily, calling down death threats on anyone and everyone who dared to touch Paul again.  
Paul gazed at him with adoring eyes.

They set John back two years and placed him with Paul.  
"Well" said the school " he doesn't do any work in the year he's in so it won't hurt him to re-take a couple of years, and at the same time he can look after Paul. They are firm friends, aren't they? By the way, did we tell you? Paul is academically incredibly clever."

"Fourteen?"  
Paul nodded.  
He didn't suck his thumb anymore, or clutch the teddy bear, but neither that or John were ever far from his side.  
"Almost as tall as me" said Dave, handing over a slightly wrinkled wrapped present.  
Paul smiled, and Dave took a sharp breath.  
He was going to be a stunning young man.  
"Can I help him open it?"  
John's voice was gruff, his voice having broken. In four months time he would be sixteen. Old enough to .. move out .. go to a hostel.  
Dave gulped. They'd had John since he was nine.  
Same as Paul.  
Paul's eyes swivelled to John, and Dave was struck again by the impenetrable barrier the pair presented to the world.  
How would Paul cope without John here?  
Who would speak for him?

"He can talk" said the school specialist. "He just chooses not to."  
Five years is a long time to choose not to talk, Dave and Vera privately thought.  
Then again, you can't make someone.

She tiptoed into the room, carrying clean washing for the next day.  
Something made her pause.  
Someone was talking in hushed whispers. One voice? Just .. one?  
There was a muffled giggle.  
It was warm in the darkness.  
There was a gasp of indrawn breath.  
She blinked, unsure.  
A pair of eyes fixed on her.  
Amber eyes, feral almost.  
She froze, her heart beating fast.  
She felt the need to explain her intrusion.  
"I .. er .. clean underwear for tomorrow" she murmured, uncomfortable.  
John's voice was low but clear. "Thank you Aunty Vera" he said.  
She left quickly.

"I don't think John and Paul should share a bed anymore."  
She wasn't sure how to explain herself, and wrung her hands.  
Dave raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What? Well .. where are you going to put one of them then?"  
She didn't have an answer.  
She just knew something felt .. wrong .. not quite right.

A couple came for Paul.  
They weren't put off.  
They came a couple of times.  
They took him out.  
They took him back with them for a day.

"She's a doctor" said Vera. "Interested in Paul's case. Apparently she's worked with children like this."

They came a fourth time.  
This time they didn't bring Paul back until the following day.

"They live in Norfolk" said Dave. "Apparently they're just here for a term on sabbatical and heard about Paul."

Paul clung to John with fingers that gripped so tightly they would leave bruises that would show for days.  
He was afraid.  
Someone would take him away.

"You're not going to school today, Paul. Just put on whatever you want."  
They both looked at Vera as she brought them a cup of tea.  
John spoke for them both.  
"Why?"  
She didn't want to answer.  
She knew there would be repercussions.  
But it was for the best.  
They were ... too close. Too .. dependent on each other.  
Her response was murmured, unintelligible.

They waited at the doorway, saloon car parked outside the humble home.  
Smartly dressed. Speaking of wealth and education.  
With a grim but determined smile the gentleman propelled Paul towards the car.  
Paul twisted in his arms, desperately seeking John.  
It was the first time he ever spoke.  
"No!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the amazing support and comments.   
> The first chapter was a 'Yesterday' moment .. it really did write itself.  
> Hope you enjoy this one as much.

"Doctor McCartney."

The voice was distant, down a long tunnel, making it's way slowly into Paul's consciousness.

"Doctor McCartney!"

By the time the voice sounded again, almost in his ear, he rose, startled, to his feet, his tired mind clumsily working out where he was and what he should be doing.

Ah, yes. Eleventh hour of a twelve hour shift at the busy A and E of Manchester's bustling hospital. Third day of a twelve hour shift and he was dead on his feet. Such was the life of a junior doctor.

He'd been dreaming. His head full of golden fields of corn under a blue English sky. A Norfolk farmhouse nestling on the bend of a country lane. Home.

It was a pain of a journey. From Manchester to Massingham took hours. Hours of A roads. Hours of being stuck behind a wheel. But his duty ended tonight and he felt an obligation to visit his mater, particularly since the sudden death of pater last year. Not that she encouraged him to visit. She was scarily self-sufficient, and Paul guessed he should feel glad about that.

He picked up the pen that had dropped from his numb fingers and turned to the nurse who'd come to fetch him.

"Why didn't you page me?" he asked imperially.

She was young. Nervous. Her reply muttered.

Paul was tired. His temper at it's edge. "Pardon?"

"I did ... " she lifted her chin defiantly. "You didn't answer."

Paul glanced at his pager . Fuck! He really must have dozed. He didn't offer an apology.

"What do we have, then?"

She had the answer. "Male. Age unknown. Found in comatose condition on Dale Street. He's been placed in cubicle nineteen."

Paul had automatically began walking in that direction, his mind spinning on ahead of him. She hurried to catch up, trotting a few paces behind.

"Any tests been run?"

"No, Doctor, we were waiting for you."

There was an element of chastisement and it rankled Paul.

"And if someone was brought in bleeding to death would you still wait for me to proclaim the obvious?" he snapped tiredly, pushing an errant dark fringe out of his eyes.

The nurse was too tired and too out of breath to reply.

Paul swept into the cubicle, curtains seeming to part of their own accord before him, and another young nurse swiftly scurried out of the way.

With a practiced eye Paul moved in to the person lying on the narrow bed. It was impossible to gauge the age due to the amount of facial hair covering the features, but Paul figured the guy couldn't be that old as there was no trace of grey. It was just .. faded. Or dirty. A whiff of stale clothes hit him and he recoiled slightly before pushing down any revulsion he felt. As his fingers searched for a pulse he was already scanning the monitor that had been attached and judging temperature from the chill beneath his fingers.

"Have you done a blood test?"

There was a murmured negative from one of the nurses.

"Why the fuck not? Surely it's ... " he took a deep breath. Don't swear, Paul, he told himself. "Right, one of you ... a blood test immediately. What's his temperature, or are you going to tell me you've not done that either?"

There was a scurry of movement, and the nurses both shifted quickly.

The wrist beneath Paul's fingers was icy cold, the lips that showed through the facial hair blue. Before one of the young nurses had even taken the temperature Paul had at least half of the diagnosis.

"Hypothermia. Get me lots of blankets .. see if they have any foil ... we need to get his temperature up. Get me the results of that blood test immediately. I want to know if there's been any substance abuse."

For a moment Paul was on his own in the cubicle. Letting out a sigh he didn't even know he was holding in he took a moment to survey closer the guy stretched out on the bed. The clothes he wore were ragged, thin and wet. They needed removing. He was still, breathing shallow. Paul leant over and took a whiff of the breath that was being discharged, testing for the smell of alcohol. Beneath the beard the skin was dry, crusty. Probably not been washed for days. Weeks, even. Paul blanched and moved back. How the hell did people get in such a state?

"Do we have any details on this guy?" Paul asked as the original nurse returned. "Y' know? Age? Name?"

She shook her head and passed Paul the results of the blood test. 

"The paramedics reckon just one of the homeless that hang out round by Afflecks Palace."

He skimmed the paper print out. 

"Okay. Get him changed into dry clothes and get him admitted. I'll check on him tomorrow."

"But .. but ..."

Paul's eyes swivelled to her. "What?" he spat.

She took a step back. "It's not your duty tomorrow ... you're off rota."

Paul flung the paper onto the bed. "I know. Is there a law against me choosing to come in?"

In the face of his temper she took another step back, shaking her head.

"Good." He ran a hand tiredly over his face. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he lowered his voice. "I'll check on him tomorrow, try to see this kind of thing doesn't happen again."

The cubicle curtains dropped back into place behind his departing figure.

*********************************

His sleep was that of the exhausted. His breakfast quickly snatched. He tidied his hair in the mirror, his eyes meeting a face that looked older than it's twenty six years, weariness etched in every line. Slinging an overnight bag into the back of his car he headed to the hospital. A few heads turned to look at him as he strode through the corridors, white coat flying. Out of surprise at him appearing when he was off duty or out of dread, he didn't know. What he did know was that he wasn't well-liked. He saw the way staff scurried out of his way. He heard the way nurses whispered about him. He tried to ignore it all.

He made his way to the bed in the men's ward, and picked up the clipboard with the latest figures on it, scanning it swiftly.   
He could feel eyes on him.

Clipping the board back, he glanced up.  
From beneath masses of hair he could just about see a pair of eyes.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked. There was no warmth in his voice. It was a clinical enquiry.

"Why should you care?"  
The voice was nasal, surprisingly strong.

Paul blinked, taken aback for a moment.  
"I'm a doctor, it's my place to care."

There was a shift, a movement of blankets.  
"Your place or your job?"

"Pardon?"

"I said ... your place or your job .. to care, that is. What you're getting a hefty wage for, innit?"

Paul ignored the bribe.  
"We don't have a name for you."

"S' not important."

Irked, Paul probed further. "Or an address."

There was a snort of laughter.  
"Various doorways."

"Living outside like that now the weather is getting colder is risky."

"Oh? And what are you going to do about it, mister doctor?"

Paul's eyes swivelled to closer survey this guy who was pushing his buttons, then realised, with a jolt, that the man's gaze wasn't quite focused on him. They were gazing somewhere ... somewhere ... towards the end of the bed. Intrigued, Paul leaned over and waved his hand in front of the man, who visibly jumped.

"Hey! What the fuck d'you think you're doing?"

Paul picked up the information sheet again.  
"Do you have difficulty with your vision?"

There was a grumble. "No. Me vision is perfect."

Rather than get annoyed, Paul felt a smile begin to rise.   
In truth he couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled.

Keeping a safe distance, he held up a couple of fingers.  
"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"How the fuck should I know? Can't see y' , can I?"

Chewing the inside of his lip, Paul scribbled something down on the form.

"We'll get your eyes tested for you while you're here."

"Fuck that."

"Also, I'll arrange for a different doctor to take over as I'm going to be away for a few days."

"Oh? Running off to the sun are we?"

"No." Paul paused. "I'm going home to Norfolk, actually."

The guy mimicked Paul's voice. "Oh ... Norfolk, actually."

Really, this guy was impossible.

"I'll also arrange for a social worker to visit. See if we can sort some kind of ... accommodation for you."

"I don't want a fucking social worker."

"They are there to help you."

"They do sod all."

"They try their best."

"Really? How d'you know? What d'you know? Never had to deal with a social worker in your privileged life, have you?"

Paul clipped the papers back, replacing them to the bed frame.

"Actually" he said softly "I have."

**********************************************

"Paul!"

His mater opened the door, and a familiar smell of polish met him.

"You should have let me know you were coming."

"I .. er .. I ..."

"Don't mumble. Can't stand mumblers. Well, since you're here you'd better come in. I'll put the kettle on. I'm afraid I have to go out in a moment ... a meeting of the Bridge Club. But you can find yourself some lunch. There's pate and salad in the fridge."

As his mater turned and headed through the ancient hallway into the kitchen, Paul followed her, clutching his weekend bag and feeling like the reluctant fourteen year old boy who had arrived here, upset and nervous, twelve years ago.

His mater's movements were clipped and efficient, just like her. She filled the kettle and snapped on the switch, turning to face him.  
Her gaze ran rapidly over him, from head to toe.  
He felt lacking.

"You're too thin. Are you eating enough?"

He fidgeted. "Life's busy." He shrugged.

"Don't shrug. It's not becoming. And you have to pencil in things like lunch and dinner, darling. Stick up for yourself. Hospitals will always work a willing horse to death. Your room is ready. It always is."

He slid into a chair, running his fingers over the old smooth polished oak. He loved this house, nestling amongst folds of fields down a country lane. It had weathered probably over two hundred years of storms and sun, and the red tiled floors were dipped and smooth.

A cup of tea was placed in front of him. Cup, Paul noted, not mug.

"How is work?"

He took a sip of tea. "Busy."

She crossed her legs elegantly, leaning back on the old farmhouse chair. 

"Any interesting cases?"

Paul huffed out a small breath. "I'm on A and E at the moment, mater."

Her eyes narrowed. "I do know that, darling. I follow your career with interest. Exciting, isn't it, being on A and E. Never two days the same."

Exciting? Paul wasn't sure if he'd consider it exciting. Challenging, yes. Mentally as well as physically.

Paul ran fingers through his hair. Sometimes there was too much to deal with. He wanted to run away from it all. But he couldn't explain that. Not to himself, not to anyone. It had been expected he would become a doctor. It was what his parents did. And he was academically bright. There hadn't been a choice. Not that he could recall, anyway.  
And she was waiting for an answer.

"I had a young girl die." He didn't know where that had come from.

His mater looked sharply at him, her eyes calculating.

"Those things happen."

Paul shrank inwardly. He couldn't get the child out of his mind. A car accident. Her organs were crushed. He'd not been the only one working on the case. Two families brought in. An evening incident on the busy M6 Northbound. He should have been able to ... he should ...

His mater's hand tightened around his wrist.  
"Paul, put it out of your mind." She was quite firm.  
There was a second's silence.  
Then she rose.  
"I have to go. Go and settle yourself and make yourself some lunch. A proper one, mind. Alice is coming in to cook later. I'll message her and tell her to double the quantity.  
See you later, darling."

Paul pushed open the door into his room. Late autumn sunlight was colouring the room, glancing off white covers, lighting up the dust motes that danced in the air. His room smelt of polish, like the rest of the house, and books. The large bookcase was crammed with novels and his medical books. He felt a weight drop off him and he sank onto his bed, swinging his feet up. At the same time a fluffy white and brown cat landed on him.

"Monty!" Paul gathered up the purring ball of fluff and gave the animal a hug. It wriggled and vibrated in his arms as he sank his nose into the soft hair.

How well he remembered the day he'd been bought this animal. He'd wanted a dog. Lots of people had dogs in the surrounding houses. His mater had been definite. No! It would be a distraction. He wouldn't have time to walk it and keep up his studies. He hadn't argued. He'd learned that was something you didn't do. Then he came home at the end of the summer term with stunning exam results and his pater had arrived home a few days later with the kitten as a well-done gift. Much to the dismay of his mater. But the ball of fluff had wormed it's way into all their hearts and was firmly embedded in the Norfolk farmhouse.

He stretched out on the bed, the cat resting on his chest, and let his eyes close.

************************************

 

"Paul! For goodness' sake ... have you not had lunch?"

Paul shot off the bed, disturbing the cat, garnering his scattered wits, at the sound of his mater's voice.

"Sorry ... I .. I must have ..."

His mater tutted. "Go and freshen up. I'll pour you a sherry in the parlour. Alice says the meal will be ready in half an hour."

Over sherry his mater drilled him about his life. Had he met anyone?

Paul tried to explain he was busy. Really busy.

"So are the nurses, dear. No nice nurses? Or better still, female doctors?"

His eyes traced the pattern on the heavy tapestry curtains that hung at the old leaded windows. He didn't like talking relationships. He found them ... difficult.

"Surely you have some friends you go out with occasionally?"

She probed. He buttoned up.

His mater heaved a sigh. "Sometimes I despair of you, Paul. You must make more of an effort to socialise. There is a lot going on in Manchester. The theatre, concerts."

"I don't have much time for such things."

She paused, surveying him from calculating eyes.

"Is there something you're not telling me?"

Colour flooded Paul's face. "What? What d'you mean?"

Her voice was icily cold. "I think you know perfectly well what I mean."

"I think I know what you are inferring but I don't know where that has suddenly come from." There was a defiant tilt to Paul's demeanour.

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. She'd never forgotten what that woman... Vera, was it? ... had murmured to her. She could barely recall the woman's name but she recalled her warning. Two teenage lads getting too .. close.

In the overstuffed and not very comfortable chair she saw Paul shift nervously.

She'd never really sussed him out.

 

"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I haven't forgotten about The Love You Make ... I will get back to it very soon. This is now almost at the end ... I think! I've had so much encouragement and so many lovely comments. Thank you to all.

In his anger he trashed the house. In his rage he threw books at the teacher and overturned a row of desks. At the hostel he was removed to he broke as many windows as he possibly could before they stopped him. He shouted and screamed at them. He was moved to a more secure place. They tried to help him start a new life. Find a job. He slipped off their radar, shop lifting cigarettes, sleeping on mates' floors, dealing. He didn't come back on their radar until three years later when he stormed into a social worker's office and demanded to be given the address of where Paul had been sent. He was forcibly removed by the police and held in a lock-up over night until he'd calmed down. He never found out where Paul had gone. And over the years the memory of that beautiful boy he'd loved with all his heart and soul faded. As if it had never happened. And life became a round of survival ... of a sorts.

***********************************************************************************

Paul moved swiftly to the list of records, his eyes shifting down the names, sorting out rapidly who he needed to see and how urgent the need was.

A young nurse stood hesitantly by, dreading the fact she'd been partnered with Paul for her shift.

Finally ... after what seemed an eternity .. he glanced up.

"Have you seen Mr. Adams lately?"

She nodded. "Yes, doctor. Yesterday. He's doing well."

Paul inclined his head, thumb tracing the list of names again. Something was .. not quite right. Missing.

"The homeless guy? No name? He needed a sight test and .."

Her face flooded with red. She'd dreaded this question.

"He .. er .. he discharged himself."

Paul looked at her in disbelief, a silent 'what?' being formed.

"I'd asked for a social worker to be contacted and ..."

"I'm so sorry. He wouldn't stay. Just ... left."

Paul's dark eyes switched to the windows where the rain was teeming down, icy shards, gathering in runnels, streaming down. Not a time to be homeless.

He shook off the thought. "Okay. Let's get seeing to the one's that remain then. I suggest we begin with Mrs. Audell and put Mr. Adams at the end of the list."

She let out a sigh of relief. It could have been a lot worse.

 

Paul slid into a vacant seat at a vacant table in the staff canteen, as far away from anyone as he could manage. 

The coffee tasted like cardboard but, hopefully, might keep him awake a little longer.

He took out his phone, glancing at it. He didn't know why. No one ever messaged him or rang him. But it gave him something to do. Gave the impression he could be like others, who were gazing at their screens, laughing over photos, sharing videos, texting or calling. 

Sometimes Paul felt the most alone when he was surrounded by people.

He leaned his head on his hand, closing his eyes briefly.

"Well, I dunno where you were yesterday, 'cos your favourite was on. But I saved you some. It's been in the fridge overnight, so should be okay."

Paul blinked, meeting a pair of blue eyes. 

Ritchie, one of the canteen staff and the only person in the hospital who had penetrated Paul's cool facade.

A smell of Shepherds Pie assailed Paul's nostrils and his stomach rumbled. God, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten.

He smiled at Ritchie, who had taken a seat opposite.

"Thank you. Appreciated."

Ritchie nodded solemnly. "Look like you could do with it mate. You're far too thin."

Paul took a mouthful, his face crinkling in pleasure. "That's what my mother said."

"Ah. Been home, have you?"

"Yes. To Norfolk."

"Oh! Norfolk." Ritchie pronounced it like Paul, and Paul frowned. That other guy. That homeless guy ... he'd mimicked him saying it too.

Paul paused. "Do I .. sound strange when I say that?" he enquired seriously.

Ritchie blushed. "Nah! Just posh, is all."

Paul pondered the reply. "Oh!" is all he said.

"So ... how was your visit home?"

Paul chewed his food carefully, swallowing before replying, a tiny voice at the back of his head nagging ' don't talk with your mouth full'.

"Fine, thank you."

Ritchie frowned. That didn't tell him anything. "And how's your mother?"

"She's fine too, thank you."

Ritchie felt the closure. This young doctor never spoke about himself. But Ritchie could sense great unhappiness, and that bothered him.

"Well, we had quite a time while you were gone. Some guy decided to discharge himself, got lost in the hospital, then did a runner with a pile of blankets."

Paul paused, fork partway to mouth. "Oh?"

"Uh huh. I gather he was some homeless chappie who decided he didn't want looking after. Caused a right rumpus ... running down corridors in nowt but a pair of trousers and clutching some blankets. He managed to collide with a trolley full of lunches, tripped over some chairs, then legged it out of the emergency doors just as an ambulance   
arrived. That was the last we saw of him."

"Mmmm." Paul could picture it in his mind, assuming it was the same guy. Must have given every one a comedic moment. 

Ritchie leaned back on the chair, watching Paul eat. For a moment Paul was giving all his concentration to the meal, which was tasting better with each mouthful and he hoped it wouldn't be finished too quickly.

They'd only known each other a short time.

Paul had first appeared on Ritchie's radar a few weeks ago when he'd come across the young doctor quietly having a nervous break-down in an empty cubicle after the death of a child in his care. Alarmed Ritchie had swiftly found a cup of strong sweet tea and had remained with the young man, even going so far as to take him home and stay with him.

Mentioning the incident to a few of the hospital staff, their reactions had been united.

"He's a cold fish" seemed the common one.

"Totally lacking in emotion" was another.

That was not what Ritchie found. He saw a young man who struggled to communicate. Who locked his emotions inside of him.

Also ... he was a fellow Scouser. He might speak with well-modulated voice, but the odd word would slip, giving his roots away.

Ritchie wouldn't give up on him ... even to the point of making himself a nuisance.

"So, when you finish...."

Paul glanced up from his plate, clearing the final remnants, a query in his eyes.

" ... wondered if you fancied going for a drink?"

Paul's first reaction was to decline, then his mater's words came back at him.

"Er ,,, yeah. Yeah, okay. Sounds good. Where?"

Ritchie almost fell off his chair.

"Well ...." he thought rapidly. "What about the Thirsty Scholar? " He saw Paul frown, trying to place it. "Y' know ... under the railway arch by Oxford Road Station?"

Oh. Yes. Paul did know. Always crowded. Hundreds of students.

"We can walk up. There's always things going on ... quite a buzz."

"Erm, yes. Okay." Social training kicked in. "Thank you" Paul said politely.

Ritchie grinned. "S'okay. I'll buy you one, then you can buy me one, eh? " He leaned closer to Paul. "Maybe even pick a bird, yeah?"

He felt Paul's swift withdrawal.

"Or not, as the case may be" he added quickly.

Paul nodded.

 

The rain had finally stopped. Puddles in gutters, umbrellas being carried.

Under the arches was, as always, crowded. Students and workers on their way home.

Although he was much smaller than Paul, Ritchie took a firm grip of the younger man's elbow and steered him deftly between the crowds.

Obviously he was well used to fighting his way to get to a bar.

Finding a cold lager shoved unceremoniously into his hand, Paul took a deep swig.

It was as if his whole body suddenly relaxed, and he smiled.

"Thanks for this."

Ritchie's mouth almost dropped open in surprise.

This was one stunning young man when he smiled.

It threw him for a moment. "Oh, it's okay, y'know. All need to chill occasionally, yeah?"

Paul nodded, and took another sip, his eyes scanning the overcrowded room.

So many people.

"Take you long to drive home?" Ritchie asked conversationally.

Paul blinked, pulled back to the present. "Oh. Er, yes, actually. About five and a half hours. Could have been worse, I expect."

Ritchie nodded. Personally, apart from a couple of holidays to Spain, he'd never left the North West, and had very little idea of where Norfolk was, other than the other side of the country and down a bit. His schooling had been lax, to say the least.

"How did you end up living there?" Ritchie enquired, curious. "I mean, a Scouser like you?"

Paul's fair skin coloured, and he stared into his drink, muttering something. 

Ritchie began to wish he'd not asked.

Then he saw Paul gather himself together, armour slotting into place. "I was adopted" he said.

Oh! Oh, that explained such a lot ... or did it? A frown crossed Ritchie's face.

"Were you happy?" he asked.

He had no idea where such an impertinent enquiry had come from.

Paul blinked, startled, his eyes widening. Something passed between them.

"No."

Fuck! He wished he'd not asked.

He looked down into his drink. "Sorry, I shouldn't have ..."

"It's okay." Paul shook his head, his eyes flitting across the heads of other people. "They meant well. I was probably .. not easy."

"But you go back to visit?"

Paul heaved a sigh. "Yes. Don't know why I bother, though."

He suddenly blinked again, rapidly. Ritchie figured it was like a nervous tic.

"Why's that?"

"Huh?" Paul winced, coloured again, and retracted. "Sorry. My mother is scarily self-sufficient. I expect I should be glad of that. President of the local Bridge Club ( Ritchie wondered what bridges had to do with a woman? thinking only of road ones, and why should they need a president?), Chairwoman of the Golf Club, head flower arranger at the parish church, .... you see what I mean? She doesn't really have time for ... for .." he chewed his lip, blinking rapidly again. His gaze fell on the posters on the wall.

"Did you want to be adopted?" Ritchie asked softly.

Oh Christ! Paul wished Ritchie hadn't asked that. The memory of being torn ... for that was how it felt to him .. from John's side still haunted him to this day.  
He'd not been allowed to write ... not to John or to Vera and Dave.  
"A new life" his parents had said. "A new beginning. Put everything else behind you."  
He'd dug his feet in. Absolutely refused to be cajoled into speaking. Wanting only to go back.  
Enrolment at a private school, every move monitored. Slowly he'd been worn down.

Ritchie saw the internal struggle and recanted his question.

"Sorry, I'm being nosy. Just tell me to shurrup."

Paul smiled and buried his nose back in his glass.

"What d'you do in an evening? I mean, when you're on your own, like. Got any hobbies?"

Paul gave the question due consideration. He liked to read, but found his concentration skills were sadly lacking. He found watching television impossible ... anyway, he didn't even have one. Really he was a doer. Liked to keep his hands busy. His guitar was currently gathering dust though as he seemed to be always at work. And if he wasn't at work then he'd be asleep. In fact, that was a good answer. 

"Sleeping" he said with a shy smile.

Ritchie nodded understandingly. "I can believe that."

There was a sudden surge as what seemed to be a whole new body of people entered the pub. A stamping of feet, a blowing on of cold fingers, a shaking off of coats, dampness seeming to seep in with them. They were pushed even closer together.

"Raining again" Ritchie said drolly.

"Nearly as bad as Liverpool" said Paul.

Ritchie looked at him with wide eyes. "As bad as? Never! I was born with wellies on me feet."

Paul burst out laughing and Ritchie felt chuffed.

All this guy needed was some company.

By the time they'd downed their third pint they were reminiscing about Liverpool. Places they remembered. 

Ritchie, who was far more used to holding his drink than Paul, noted with amusement a slight trace of accent slipping back in.

It seemed a shame to end the night. 

But Paul looked tired, propping up the bar.

And he had work tomorrow as well.

Probably both on at about the same time, albeit totally different jobs.

He felt Paul stumble slightly as they made their way out into the sudden cold of a November night, the rain still slanting down.

The tyres of the buses made swishing noises as the wheels turned through runnels of water.

Paul huddled closer into his warm woollen coat.

For him it was just a short walk back to the hospital to collect his car.

"Can I give you a lift?" he offered to Ritchie.

Ritchie grinned. "Not worth it. I can catch me bus from over the road."

"Oh. Oh, right. Where d'you live?"

"West Didsbury. Share a house with some friends. You'll have to come round sometime for beer and pizza ... " a sudden thought struck Ritchie. Maybe that wasn't quite the suitable offer to make a junior doctor " ... or ... or, I dunno, a meal or summat?"

The twinkle in Paul's eyes told Ritchie he knew what Ritchie had been thinking.

"I'd love to" he said. "Thanks for tonight. Asking me out. I've .. I've really enjoyed it."

Ritchie looked taken aback for a moment. "S'only a drink. You're easily pleased, aren't you? Could do with more like that."

Paul watched Ritchie dodge across the road to intercept a bus that had just turned the corner.

He gave a last wave, and turned his attention to getting himself home.

As he pulled up the collar of his coat, a voice could be heard, quiet in the dark and rain.

"Got any change, mister?"

Paul hesitated, turning to glance at the figure that was huddled under one of the railway arches. 

There was something vaguely familiar ... then he caught sight of what was definitely a hospital blanket.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. Thanks for all who've followed. Sorry if it's a bit of a c..p ending. I had more of a beginning to this story than an ending, but I do want to tie it up.

Paul's dark eyes zeroed in on the huddled figure.

In the ceaseless movement of humanity around him he was like an oasis of calm, familiar hospital blanket trailing into a running gutter, it's edges muddy and soaking up yet more water.

It was a miracle Paul had even heard the voice with all the noise around him.

He moved nearer, never taking his eyes off him.

It was the same guy, wasn't it. It was, wasn't it?

"Got any spare change, mister."

The question hadn't been directed at Paul.

It was directed to anyone who might .. just might ... be listening.

Like a mantra. Over and over again.

Paul squatted down by his side, realising with a jolt that the eyes were almost closed, focused on .. nothing. Just a few yards in front of him. An empty wine bottle ... cheap wine, of course ... lying on it's side.

Paul automatically did a scan ... he couldn't help it. It was his training.

The lips were pale, the voice so quiet it was a wonder Paul had even heard it. But there was the familiar nasal twang. It was definitely the same guy.

The logical side of Paul said ... leave him. You've tried once before.

The human side of Paul couldn't.

Shuffling nearer, he took hold of the man's wrist, and for a moment the voice stuttered, a tremor running through the body.

"Who's that? What y' doing" and Paul felt the fear.

"It's okay, I'm a doctor" he murmured, aware of people shifting around him as they created their own little space.

There was almost ... almost, not quite ... a hint of a smile. The whiskers twitched.

"Ah, don't tell me. Doctor Norfolk again."

Paul felt his own smile bubbling.

"Might be" he said.

The guy didn't pull his wrist away.

"You're persistent, aren't you." There was a touch of humour in the voice.

"I arranged for ...."

"Some other bleeding doctor to take over."

Paul paused, his fingers automatically counting the pulse.

"I was going away."

"Yes, I know. Home. To Norfolk." Fucking hell. Now this guy was doing it in a poncey accent. Paul made a mental note to re-consider how he pronounced that.

"Yes" he said stiffly.

To his surprise there was a gentle squeeze of his fingers.

"I'm just teasing ya, y'know."

"Hmm, yes ... well. You can't stay here. I need to get you to somewhere warm and dry. Get you out of these incontinent elements."

The guy frowned briefly at the use of such words, then suddenly smiled. Paul could see a flash of teeth from behind all the hair.

Jesus, this guy could pass for being a yeti, the amount of facial hair he had.

"Well, I didn't like the place you picked last time. Service was dreadful. Got any other options? Otherwise, I'll just stay here, ta very much."

Paul never knew what made him say it. Never. In a hundred years.

"I'll take you home with me."

The guy's mouth dropped open.

Paul astonished himself.

There was an infinitesimal pause.

Then Paul shifted, rising to his feet, grabbing both the man's hands and hauling him to his feet also.

There was a moment of staggering as Paul struggled to keep his balance as the guy, legs and feet numb, did the same.

They landed in each other's arms, and the man pushed himself off, his voice serious, but a twinkle in those myopic eyes.

"Aye, aye, feeling me up, are you?"

Paul didn't know quite where to put his hands, aware of the fact that the guy may well topple over if he didn't hold on to him.

His response was swift and stiff. "I'm just trying to support you, that's all."

Paul tried to tug the blanket closer round the guy's body, but it was soaked through. As were the clothes he was wearing.

On impulse Paul shrugged himself out of his expensive woollen coat and slung it around the damp figure, shivering as the chill of a November day hit him.

"What y' doing, y' daft sod?"

"Trying to keep you warm" Paul responded. "And, anyway, no taxi will take us with your clothes soaked through."

"What about you?"

Paul blinked slowly.

Apart from Ritchie no one ever asked him how he would cope.

"I'll be fine" he replied after a momentary hesitation. "Come on, let's get a taxi."

 

By the time Paul managed to hail a taxi, he was soaked through too. Although with his smart clothes and air of authority no taxi driver would refuse him, even if the one who stopped for them did roll his eyes in disdain.

Paul never noticed. He was focused on one thing only.

He named an address in Didsbury, and the taxi driver quickly re-assessed.

Expensive area. With any luck a good tip, and drove off.

Apart from a local radio station bubbling away, the taxi was warm and cosy and quiet.

Paul sank back on the seat, jolting uncomfortably as his wet clothes touched the leather, and considered, not for the first time, what he had done.

Bloody hell.

The guy next to him was quiet, eyes almost shut, any hint of a smile or mischievement having gone, as if the seriousness of the situation had just hit him too.

 

Paul ushered him up the stairs to his flat, anxious to be out of the rain, and unlocked the door of his apartment.

For a moment they both stood there, unsure, and a detached part of Paul's mind registered the fact that puddles were collecting at their feet on the newly stained wooden floor.

"Erm .. do you mind removing your shoes?" Paul asked as he slipped his own off.

The guy hesitated, and Paul swore he was blushing under all that hair.

"I ..er ... there's ... erm ... me socks 'ave holes in them."

Poor man. To feel so ... awkward.

Paul shrugged. "Mine do too, sometimes. It's okay."

Reassured, the guy kicked off his down at heel, once white, trainers. What was left of his socks were wet too, and he stood there, wiggling a big toe.

Paul felt as if someone had removed his battery, and he was winding down. He jogged himself, and moved swiftly towards the bathroom.

"I'll run you a hot bath" he called over his shoulder.

The guy glanced around himself in alarm. What was he supposed to do? Just ... strip?

He heard the sound of water gushing from a tap, and suddenly nothing seemed quite as enticing as a clean bath.

Next moment, Paul was back there in front of him, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

The guy hadn't moved.

Then again, he hadn't run away either.

"I'll .. er ... " Paul blushed, strongly aware of the situation. "I'll put you some clean clothes out in my bedroom. I think they'll fit you okay. I won't need them back, it's okay. You can keep them." He turned away awkwardly, castigating himself that the sentence probably sounded patronising.

"What about you?"

"Huh? Pardon?"

The guy wiggled his hand at Paul. "Well, you're wet too. You need to dry off."

Paul dipped his head, unsure. "It's okay" he murmured, angling his body away. "I'll just have a rub down and put something dry on. It's only rain, after all."

"Well, why am I more important than you?"

Paul's eyes widened as he turned back in disbelief. "You ... you've been living on the streets. You need to clean up as well as warm up."

"I don't have lice, Doctor Norfolk. I do me best to stay clean, y'know."

Paul blinked rapidly. "I'm sure you do, but .. just take the chance, eh?"

The guy looked quizzically at Paul. "Why y' doing this?"

Paul frowned as he considered the question. "I don't know" he said simply.

After studying Paul carefully, the man moved towards the bathroom, and Paul heard the sound of running water turned off.

"There's plenty of towels on the shelf" he called as the door clicked to.

For a moment he busied himself laying out an outfit for the guy, considering what he could easily part with and what would be best for someone living out on the streets. After a moment's thought he put out two pairs of socks and pants. Just to be able to have a change would be useful. Outer clothes?? Paul selected a t-shirt, an ordinary shirt and a couple of jumpers. Hopefully that would bundle the guy up against the elements. He would have to request his woollen coat back as his mother had not long bought it for him but there was a gilet and a parka left over from his students days, and Paul added those to the increasing pile.

A shiver caused him to pause, and he realised he was still wearing a shirt that was soaked through, and a silk tie that was now ruined. He dragged his wet things off and left them in a pile on his bedroom floor until he could get into the bathroom and place them in the laundry basket. Giving himself a quick rub he swiftly tugged on a jumper and a pair of grey sweatpants and padded barefoot into the kitchen to make them both a hot drink.

It was quiet in the bathroom.

He hoped the guy hadn't gone to sleep and .. drowned.

Paul flitted back and tapped on the door.

"Yeah?"

He breathed out a sigh of relief.

"I've left some clothes on my bed for you. You don't have to put them all on in one go, but you can have them all. I'm going to make us a hot drink. Do you prefer tea or coffee."  
Paul was aware of the fact he probably sounded very stilted, but he just wasn't used to looking after someone. He dallied, waiting for a reply, rubbing his arms briskly to warm himself up.

"Well, Doctor Norfolk, since you're offering, I'll have a mug of tea. Milk an' two sugars, please."

Paul hid a smile at the teasing.

He gave another discreet tap.

"I .. er .. I forgot to say. If you want to shave, like .. you don't have to, obviously .. but if you do, feel free to borrow my shaving kit. There's new razors in the wall cupboard."

The guy glanced around myopically, eventually locating the wall cupboard Paul had spoken of.

He considered the offer. A beard was useful ... kept him warm. But, really, it was beginning to look as if a rat had taken up residence in it lately.

He was aware he looked a mess. After all, men's loos did have mirrors .. if they'd not been vandalised.

"Ta. Might do."

Satisfied, Paul moved off back into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

He hunted through his cupboards after food, and winced. 

He did most of his eating at the hospital and carried very little food in.

However, he did have a tin of beans, some wholemeal bread and butter in the fridge.

Better than nothing, he reckoned, as he emptied the tin into a saucepan and put a couple of eggs on to boil.

He found he was humming as he worked, and stopped in confusion.

He never did that.

Not any more.

His musical leanings had been swiftly stamped out by his adoptive parents.

Feeling guilty at even allowing such a slip, he popped tea bags into the mugs and added the boiling water.

Behind him he heard the bathroom lock click open and footsteps padding across to the bedroom.

He studiedly averted his eyes and ignored the temptation to peek.

"Tea's nearly ready" he called, giving both that and the beans a quick stir.

There was a mumbled response.

 

The guy padded into the tidy bedroom with it's neat pile of wet clothes on the floor.

Apart from a guitar propped in a corner and a couple of books on the bedside cabinet there was no evidence that anyone really ... lived ... here. Existed, yes, but not lived. Not a life. Everything was immaculate. Bed covers just so, curtains tied back. Except .. except ...

..... he peered closer. He frowned. His hand reached for the object that resided on the pillow. It stuck out like a sore thumb amongst so much perfection.

He picked it up, bringing it closer to his short-sighted eyes, checking, making sure.

It couldn't be.

He sank his nose onto the worn, rubbed bare fur and inhaled.

It couldn't be ... no way ... no way ...

He sank down onto the bed, clutching the teddy bear.

His knees weak. 

It was.

 

Paul was just adding sugar to the mug when he became aware of a presence behind him.

Jesus, that was quick. He hoped the guy had put some clothes on. He didn't want any embarrassing moments.

He pushed the mugs to one side and gave the beans a quick stir.

"Everything okay?" he enquired, keeping his voice light and eyes on the job in hand.

"Where did you get the bear?"

"Huh?" Paul's hand stilled for a moment, then started again, stirring faster as he shoved emotions that threatened to rise to the surface down.

He'd hidden that bear. Carried it to his new home. Keeping it concealed. His one connection to his old life.

"I was given it by a friend." Paul answered easily. Of course, the guy would have found it on his bed. It must look .. odd. He should have thought. Should have moved it.

He blinked rapidly. It was all he had left.

"Does he have a name?"

Jesus, why was this guy so curious?

Paul swallowed, trying to maintain his nonchalance.

His dark eyes remained fixed on the cooking beans.

"Yes, he does. He's called Boffin." He enunciated clearly and in a tone that said 'closure'.

There was a long pause. Paul kept stirring.

"A very suitable name for a teddy bear too, Paul."

It didn't register for a moment, the use of his name.

It sank in, slowly.

He turned to face the man behind him, disbelief and hope expressed in his eyes.

"John?"

Now clean shaven ... his skin tingling and chafing from the use of a razor ... John nodded, his myopic eyes scanning every inch of Paul's face with renewed intensity.

Tentatively he brought a thumb up and smoothed the cheek, running it down, pausing on the lips. His boy. His beautiful boy.

Something like a choked sob broke from Paul and he flung himself into John's arms, which enclosed him as they'd enclosed him so many years ago.

"I thought .. I thought ... I'd never see you again."

John's shoulder was rapidly dampening.

He hugged the younger man tightly.

"I thought I'd never see you again. I tried, Paul. I honestly did. No one would tell me where you'd gone."

Paul lifted his head from John's shoulder, scrubbing his eyes, laughter and tears bubbling from him as if someone had unlocked a secret door.

"I can't believe it ... I just can't believe it. It's like a miracle."

"Isn't it just, Doctor Norfolk."

Paul batted him. "Stop it! Stop it, John."

It was just how the old Paul would have reacted.

They looked at each other again, seeing the changes that twelve years had wrought.

"You never recognised me" Paul said.

John grinned. "Can't see properly, can I? An' ... well, you talk so posh now. Anyway, y' didn't recognise me either."

"Under all that hair? Couldn't get a glimpse of your face."

They looked fondly at each other, unable to believe their luck.

Paul tentatively reached forward, touching John's face. "I ... I never forgot you, y'know. Ever."

John's smile was bittersweet. "Aye. Well, never forgot you neither."

"I wanted to write you, but .. " Paul recalled his anguish as if it was yesterday " ... they wouldn't let me."

A muscle twitched in John's cheek. "They wouldn't tell me where you'd fucking gone."

Paul took the teddy bear out of John's hands and sat it on the kitchen counter, suddenly remembering the beans that were sticking to the pan and the tea that was stewed.

"I ... I .. " he didn't know what he wanted to say. He knew only that he didn't want to ... couldn't possibly ... lose John again. He twisted his fingers together, blinking rapidly.  
"You won't go, will you? Again?"

"I didn't go in the first place" John pointed out gently. He wiped away a tear that Paul didn't even know was there.

Paul's fingers curled around John's hand.

"Please" he whispered. "Please .. stay."

John pulled him into his arms. "I'm never going anywhere Paul. Not ever."


End file.
